and in the night we scream [Magpiestar - OPEN]

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A thick layer of mist lay over the ground, an unnaturally thick fog. Each step seemed to wrap around his legs in a spine-tingling caress. He simultaneously wanted to flee, and never move again. It was a strange sensation, one that disconcerted him deeply. His eyes fluttered closed as his steps finally ceased. The mist was rising up, now brushing against the thick fur of his belly. But not a single drop of condensation stuck to him, permeated the mist. It was unnatural. As it wound up around his limbs, over his back, it began to feel heavy. It settled over him like a blanket, weighing on his shoulders. It wound around his neck, flirting with the edge of his chin. With a suddenness, panic snapped into place. His jaws parted, but the mist surged forward and down his throat. It was tightening around him, compressing. It flicked through his fur, brushed against his bare skin. Its touch was the brush of snow, the lick of ice. He gasped, shivers running down his spine. Not a sound escaped his sprawling jaws.

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His knees began to shake, quivering with exertion. He was buckling, slowly but surely, under the impossible weight of the fog. It pushed against him, down on his back, on every muscle he had ever had. He quavered, fought and shook. The only moisture to permeate him was a bead of sweat upon his brow, tingling under his thick fur. At last, there was nothing that could keep him standing. His knees collapsed beneath him. He fell to the ground with a thud, a warrior brought truly to his knees. He gasped for breath, the mist surging up around his eyes, his ears, over his head. It was as if he was drowning, brought to the depths of the lake. But he could feel the grass soft beneath him, he could feel it all. His heart was hammering. Each gasp gave him less and less air. He would suffocate. His lungs ached, screamed for release. The weight still crushed him. He could feel his bones protesting, hear them creaking in despair.

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And then it was gone. The mist receded. He lifted his head, sucking in air greedily. He still laid upon the ground, though he had curled in around himself. His face was buried in his own fur, his whole body trembling with fear. He would have stayed their for hours, simply lavishing in the feeling of air whistling through his nostrils. But something - a silent step - made him lift his head again. His gaze flicked around the trees, the shrubbed bushes and reeds that made up Riverclan territory. They landed on a diminutive silver shape. The mist surged around the figure's paws in an almost deferential way. He peered at it, his eyes narrowing. As he did so, it moved forward, into a shaft of light. In a movement that sucked his breath away, knocked everything he knew away from him, Magpiestar's fearful gaze landed upon Willowgaze. She was perfect, beautiful, in all her youthful glory. But something made him quiver, made him want to stumble away in horror. Willowgaze's face was frozen, her lips a thin line, her eyes vacant and staring. She doesn't move again, doesn't make as if to greet him, to wrap herself around him like the lover she once was. She does nothing at all.

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Then before him, in an instant, she begins to crumble. Her fur melts away, revealing muscle and tissue, veins of blood. But that too crumbles away. Her skeleton stands, her eyes more vacant than ever. The holes in her skull are staring at him. As if in slow motion, mocking him, the bones shake. As he watched, they fell to the ground. The person he had loved, had loved more than any other, was reduced to nothing more than a pile of bones before him. At last he surged forward, a screech splitting from his jaws. But the mist surged around him, pulling him back, back further and further away from the bones that had been his truest love.

Magpiestar sat bolt upright, gasping. He could still see Willowgaze's empty eye sockets, her skull smiling gruesomely at him. He scrambled into a sitting position, his shoulders hunching. His nest was an absolute mess, almost shredded by his tossing and turning. Stray bits of reeds clung to his fur. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, too many hours of lost sleep. But a sudden commotion outside of his den demanded his attention. He was almost grateful. He didn't think he could handle closing his eyes again. He pushed through the lichen curtain, his head high and face grim. Ashclaw laid upon the ground, his movements sporadic and seemingly uncontrolled. Magpiestar approached slowly, seating himself a few feet from the distressed young tom. Many moons ago, Magpiestar had bestowed a warrior name upon the quiet tabby. He had assigned him to patrols, led him all this time. And now, he would lead him once more.

"Rise, my child. I am here."

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He was no stranger to the terrors of slumber. He had long since lost track of the number of sleepless nights. He'd spent hours wandering along the stream-bed, encased n the blackness of moon-high. He'd been caught and ushered back to his den by his neice-turned-deputy on more than one occasion. But even these wanderings wouldn't keep the pictures at bay, the memories that warped into horrors beyond description. They made him yearn for death, but even this wouldn't save him. For he would die, but rise again. And again. And again. He would rise until his nine lives dwindled to nothing. He would not sacrifice them, would not make the gifts of his ancestors meaningless.

Yet, despite all their gifts, he would eventually die. Perhaps not today, perhaps not on a day in the foreseeable future. But the suns that rose and set on his life would dwindle to nothingness. He would be left with hours, minutes. He might languish, praying for Starclan to end his interminable waiting. Or it would be gone in a flash, a sudden strike and the beautiful nothingness of death. No matter the future that awaited him, he knew this one almost comforting fact. He would die. He liked to think he had resigned himself to it. Or, more appropriately, he had accepted it with a calm finality, something that bordered on relief. And so he accepted the inevitability of his own death. He would not go so far as to search it out, like some fool teetering on the edge of the gorge. But neither would he run when the last of his suns set. He would greet it with majesty, with an awe-inspiring courage that would outlast the days of even Riverclan. Then he would reign, he would live forever among the stars, watching those who attempted to follow his illustrious path.

For had he not followed the paths of others before him? Ancestors long-forgotten had lived and died just as he now lived, and as he slowly approached death. They had passed down a long line, an ancient line. And death had come to each of them. It had come to his forefathers, the matriarchs of his line. It had, eventually, come even to his own mother. Yet she, oh blessed beautiful creature, had not died with the dignity Magpiestar someday hoped he would. She had gone out screaming, clawing at a chance to reach the surface, to gasp for air. But that was many moons ago. Magpiestar himself was now older than his mother had ever been, twice as old in fact. In a way, he was grateful for his moons. Though he wondered what price age brought. His mother had died before age had made her bones decrepit, had stolen away her mind. He liked to think, in a twisted sort of way, that her death was fated. Perhaps it was her very death that had bestowed upon him this path, this winding road to leadership. It would be a logical price of life, and a logical price of death. The world worked in such strange ways.

With a sap-like slowness, Magpiestar blinked. He’d been staring at the dirt beneath his paws since those few words had rumbled from his lips. If not for Ashclaw's movement, he might have continued staring until dawn had risen on a new day. Ashclaw had risen, his limbs once more obeying the laws of life. The leader watched him steadily, his gaze unreadable. Perhaps exhaustion had sucked all feeling from his veins. Whatever the reason, he said not a word as he blinked at Ashclaw. There was a frailty to the young tom, one not immediately obvious. His muscles were strong and firm beneath a well-kept pelt. He would be considered, by some of the younger female warriors, to be quite handsome in fact. With the right pose, the right stature, he could have been downright majestic. But beneath all of that, beneath the health and vibrance of youth, there was weakness. It wasn't unique to Ashclaw of course. Every creature had their weaknesses. Certainly Magpiestar had many, most of which he was well aware of.

Behind his quiet eyes, Ashclaw was afraid. He was haunted. Magpiestar recognized it immediate. How could he not have? It was the same look reflected in his own gaze so often, or at least on those occasions when he took the guardedness away from his stoney gaze. Willowgaze had softened that terror so often, had given him a sense of confidence. She had been a simple creature. But she was no longer an option, no longer a safe haven for his fears and insecurities. He couldn't rely on her, though he'd rarely relied on anyone else. His ears flicked back at the thought, Willow's vacant eye sockets rising in his mind's eye. He pushed it away with an angry viciousness.

His tail flicked neatly around his paws, his head raising so he kept Ashclaw's gaze evenly. He had always been a creature of very few words. He found suddenly he had none to bestow upon his young warrior. He couldn't promise safety or life or victory. He couldn't promise an end to his nightly terrors. He blinked one last time before slowly jerking his head, summoning Ashclaw to follow. Without waiting for a reply he stood, shaking out his long black and white fur. He began to pad towards the camp entrance silently. Whether Ashclaw followed or not, he wouldn't spend another moment in the camp. His tail flicked once, a final bid for the young tabby to follow him, before he vanished into the blackness.